Consequences of Procreation
by ComicalEpiphanies
Summary: A year at the farm and 20 years working at the Agency means squat. Trust me. A collection of one-shots. Sequel/companion to "Up to Now". Auggie POV. Story number four: "Situational Actions".
1. Make Me Proud

******Note: This is the first in a series of one-shots revolving around Auggie's family. None of the chapters are really connected. Think of it more as a collection. **

**A/N: As promised, the sequel to "Up to Now". You don't technically have to read it for these one-shots to make sense, but you might find it a little less confusing. This one-shot focuses on Auggie's relationship with his son, Tom. Also, I owe Emaelin a public apology. I said "Up to Now" was the first Auggie/Annie parent-fic when in fact, her story, "Some Sunny Day" is the first to have them as parents. I meant to say that "Up to Now" is the first to have him actually be a dad (you know, play with them). Because of my mistake, this one-shot is dedicated to her. On a similar note, while a lot of you wonderful people correctly guessed the origins of the kids' names, Artemis Rayne was the first to find the pattern. Congratulations to her. I also want to thank everyone who reviewed "Up to Now". There were so many, I forgot who I thanked, but I won't forget how warm and fuzzy they made me feel, especially after bombing my first major test of the school year. Thank you all for keeping my spirits up and helping my ego recover. **

Make Me Proud

"Get up."

I shrink back and swipe her arm away. I feel around for a second, my eyes closed in a vain attempt to capture the last moments of REM, recognize that she is no longer kneeling on the bed, grab a squishy pillow, and curl around it.

"Oh no you don't!"

Damn! I thought she'd gone. I groan pathetically and hug the pillow closer. "I don't think I can go."

The bed dips by my left. "Why not?"

"Sick," I mumble, my head stuffed into the pillow to avoid her reaching my forehead and feeling my temperature before I have time to heat up the thermometer.

"Where?" Her voice is soft. I grin to myself; she's falling for it!

I school my features into a pained expression and lift my head out of the cushion. "Head, mostly."

"Really?"

I nod meekly and groan again, collapsing back into the covers.

She sits next to me for a long second, so long I almost forget she's there and roll over to relish in my success. She sighs and the bed gives a small creak as she stands. I wait until her footsteps fade behind the closed door before grinning and snuggling further into my oh-so-comfortable pillows, preparing to go back to sleep.

I'm fading in and out, almost into stage two, when—

"Here." She's tapping my shoulder.

"What?" I sit up and she grabs my hand and drops two aspirin into my palm.

"Nice try, but no cigar."

So much for CIA training.

~OOOO~

Everything used to be so much bigger. Or I was a hellafa lot shorter. My legs are starting to cramp from being pressed against my chest for so long.

I remember elementary school being dark and cold and full of primary colors. Only two of those memories apply today. It's still dark (ha ha, I made a joke) and I'm still cold.

"Timmy the tooth doesn't like to feel bad…"

I block out the tooth lecture from the man presenting while stifling my third yawn in as many minutes. One of the other fathers leans over to whisper in my ear. "Glad I'm not the only one."

I crack a smile. "To do what?"

"Be bored stiff by the troubles of Timmy the Tooth." The man shifts around in his seat for a second and I assume he's holding out his hand. I reciprocate the gesture and my hand is immediately enveloped in a buff, stubbier one with workingmen's calluses. "Kevin Pason. Father of Emily Pason."

"August Anderson, here by order of my son, Thomas."

"Tom Anderson? Emily told me about him. Isn't he the wiz-kid?"

I feel a rush of pride at the nickname, even though it brings back memories that aren't all necessarily good. "Yeah, he's a smart kid. Takes after his mother." I'm being a bit modest; Tom has my math skills.

"Don't they all?" Kevin is silent for a long moment, and I let my focus wonder. "Which one is he?"

I rein my thoughts back in and return to Kevin's voice. "Tom? He's the six year-old with dirty blond hair."

"Six, huh?" I hear Kevin look around for my boy. "Ah. Scrawny, ain't he?"

I grin. "That he gets from me."

There's a short pause in Dr. Haley's Timmy lecture, and I instinctively look to a tapping somewhere to my far right. It takes a few seconds and another couple of taps before I recognize it. Someone's tapping Morse code with his rickety chair.

It isn't difficult to figure out who it is. I listen and count the dots and dashes. R-E-D-B-I-K-E-G-E-R-M-A-N-D-I-C-T-I-O-N-A-R-Y…

Tom is tapping Nora's birthday wish list, the very same list I tapped to Annie over the phone last week.

When the children first grew old enough to understand secrets and had become curious enough to eavesdrop, Annie and I had switched to saying the important things, like birthday presents and doctor's appointments, in code. First it was spelling the words out, but then Nora got a strong grip on spelling and would tell the others, so we'd switched to Portuguese, but we had to stop that when I mistranslated (I'd _told _Annie my Portuguese was weak) and took the twins to the pediatrician instead of the pharmacy. After that embarrassing event, we'd started using Morse code, but it looks like it is time to think up something else.

Of course, there is always a chance Tom had just memorized the sounds (sometimes it was a pain to have a child with a memory for patterns that surpasses most agents'). Better not risk it. I'll have to remember to tell Annie.

Tom squirms in his chair, I hear the pattern stop as the chair rocks with his movements, and I guess he's looking my way. I smile broadly in his direction as I feel his eyes on me.

"Thank you, Dr. Haley. Class, what do we say?"

A single, drawled voice answers in a monotone, "Thank you Dr. Haley."

"You're very welcome, kids. Just remember: keep Timmy happy!"

"I'm sure we will," Tom's teacher, Ms. McFerg, replies. I get the impression she's just as happy to see Timmy the Tooth (a giant plastic tooth, I gather from the huff Haley makes as he lifts something) leave as Kevin and I.

"Now class," Ms. McFerg adds after Haley has left the front of the room, toting the oversized tooth with him. "I'd like you to meet Tom's daddy, Mr. Anderson."

I'm on. I stand up at her introduction and pull out my cane. I'm passing the last group of desks when I hear it. In the back of the room, a boy (obviously the alpha of the class) snort and stage whisper to his friend, "The geek's father's a cripple."

I don't know if it's my boiling blood or the sudden flash of my own schoolyard experiences, but something makes me freeze just before I spout my cover.

"Hello everyone. As Ms. McFerg said, I'm Tom's father, August Anderson." I fold my cane and do my best to look my child in the eye. "I am the head of the technical department of a security firm, but my specialty is in encryptions."

I hear Tom's muffled intake of breath from my position at the front and I can't help but flash him a quick smile. He'd been expecting me to say a computer technician, my cover. I don't need to see to know that he's asking me what I'm doing, but I wouldn't know what to tell him even if I could.

I know I shouldn't have done it. I haven't technically broken any laws (as long as I don't say which security firm I work at), but I doubt the higher-ups would take kindly to my outburst. Then again, they're not here.

"What happened to you?"

"Jonathon Henries!"

I flap my hand toward Ms. McFerg's voice to show her it's all right, but inside my frustration is a burning mass of serotonin. The momentary elation I felt at being able to make my son proud is gone, replaced by a surge of, well, I don't know how to describe it. It's been what, almost sixteen years? I'd thought I'd gotten passed these emotions years ago. What's more, I don't usually mind being asked questions about my blindness; it comes with the cane, I'd decided somewhere along the line. So why am I suddenly so angry?

I knew going in today that some kid was going to bring it up, and I'd thought I was ready for it. Hell, after breakfast this morning, I'd made a joke about it to Annie, but standing here, center-stage, it's not so funny any more.

I groom my features. No way is my son seeing how much the boy's words sting. I go for the light answer. "What? Did I get syrup on my tie again?"

A few laugh, but not many. They're all waiting.

The kid, Jonathon, speaks again. I recognize his voice as the same one that called my son a geek. My anger spikes again. I've always _hated_ the jerky-alphas. "You're blind, aren't you?"

My faux smile fades from my face, and I answer truthfully. "Yes."

"So, what's the story?"

I consider getting him to clarify, to run him in circles until he finds his manners, but I'd like to think I'm better than that. "What makes you think there is a story?"

There's a long pause. At least I can make Tom proud by besting the class bully. "I don't know."

I grin at the overcompensating attitude. I turn to face the back wall again, effectively saying screw-you politely. "I always tell my children never to leave a question you can answer unanswered," it almost physically pains me to answer the prick, but I not a hypocrite in front of my kids. "I lost my sight in Iraq."

"What division?" It's Kevin's voice. I turn to look at him best I can.

"Army. Special forces."

"Marine. Sergeant. Twelve years."

I nod in respect. Marines did some good stuff there. They were the last ones out, too.

"What did you do there?" I don't recognize the girl's voice, but she sounds genuinely curious.

"I'm afraid that falls under the category of questions that cannot be answered." I lean conspiratorially towards the voice and half-whisper, "It's classified."

Now people shift in their seats in excitement. I turn back to the class as a whole. "I can, however, talk about what I do as a technical encrypter."

"What's that?" a girl somewhere in the middle of the room asks.

I turn toward her general direction and keep my voice airy as I say, "I'm about to explain." I pause to decide on a game plan. "How many of you have younger brothers or sisters?"

I hear hands being raised all around the classroom. "One of you with your hands up, tell me, what's the most annoying thing your kid brother or sister does?"

"Jason," Ms. McFerg calls. A loud voice issues from the second group by the door.

"Follows me around."

I laugh. "Yeah, my baby brother used to do that a lot. Something else?"

"Messes with my stuff," someone else shouts from the back of the room.

"Yes!" I try not to sound too excited, but I've been standing up here like an idiot for longer than I feel strictly comfortable with. "The little pipsqueaks sneak into your room, help themselves to your stuff, and then act all innocent, right?"

I have to wait for the class to settle down again (everyone had started agreeing and whispering to each other). "I'm going to let you into a little secret: grown ups do the same thing."

"Billy?" Ms. McFerg calls, ruining my theatrical pause.

"What does that have to do with in-crip-ton?" he sounds out. His voice is high-pitched, even for an eight year old, and contains a distinctly snooty undertone. I am surprisingly relieved that Tom isn't the class brown-noser.

"Encryption?" I correct. "Everything. How do you think grown ups keep their stuff safe?" I smile broadly and hold open my arms. "They call on me."

"Why?" Billy's tone has gained other layer of snoot in the last twenty seconds.

"Well," I'm not sure how to play this, "I am one of the best." When in doubt, go for the impressing as I always say.

"Why don't you tell us more about what your job entails?" Ms. McFerg must have noticed I'm floundering. I can't talk much about my duties as that _would_ be breaking a few nondisclosure agreements, but I can still grasp her lifeline.

"Okay, great. Well, let's see, quick vocab lesson. Can anyone tell me what 'encrypt' means?" I hear squirming, but Ms. McFerg isn't calling on anyone.

I'm probably going to regret doing this later, but I have to keep them involved. "Tom, I know you know this. Do you want to tell the class what encrypt means?"

Tom whispers, "To hide something," so softly, I have to lean in closer and get him to repeat it. He does, but barely louder. I let him go, though.

"That's right, thanks Tom. I'll set the table tonight. Now, before one of you ask me what that has to do with anything, let me explain. I hide messages – or as we grown ups call it, information – by changing it into a code or burying it in data and—" I stop suddenly.

Someone is yawning. I'm boring them! I might as well be presenting Timmy the Tooth.

"You know what, let's make this more interesting." I start again. "Will someone do me a favor and pass down my bag? It's next to the chair I was sitting in. Thank you very much." I take the bag and pull out my laptop, mentally praising myself for thinking that I might be able to get some paperwork done while others presented. "How about an example?"

I turn to Ms. McFerg. "May I borrow your desk?"

Ms. McFerg stands up immediately. "Of course. It is to your left."

I find it easily and place my computer on a relatively organized desk. I plug in my favorite headset and hang them around my neck before pausing. "Mr. Henries, why don't you give me a sentence?" I'm not asking.

"Like what?" The boy sounds surprised. He was probably the one whispering in the back. Payback's a bitch.

"Anything, just a sentence or two."

"Your job is boring."

"Great, thanks." I type his insult into my computer. "Now," I spin the laptop so the screen faces the class. "Everyone agree this is what he said?"

A lot of rustling and murmuring before Billy says loudly, "Yeah."

I spin the laptop back. The headphones are already over my ears before I have another idea. I pull them down again. "Ms. McFerg, do you have a projector?"

"Yes?" Ms. McFerg is surprised. Good.

"Connector?"

"In my bottom drawer. Right side."

I love these "new" (the agency's been using them for years) wireless pad connectors. They went public about two years ago and now all the schools in the state have them. It takes me less than a minute to set everything up so that now my screen is projected on the far wall.

"Can you all see it?" No one complains, so I go on. I pull up my headphones, being sure to keep one ear uncovered. "While I encrypt Mr. Henries' statement, I can answer some questions."

Almost at once, Billy asks, "How are you doing that so fast?"

I pause my typing. "Was I going too fast? I've been doing this for a very long time." I continue, this time making an effort to slow down so that everyone can see the multiple steps.

"How long?" I don't recognize the voice, but it's a shy girl.

I have to think about her question. "A bit longer than fifteen years."

"That's a long time!" The girl exclaims, suddenly not so shy.

I laugh and pull off my headphones just as Ms. McFerg asks, "What kind of background in computers do you have?"

"Besides fifteen years doing it? Masters in computer technology and applied mathematics from MIT." I stand up and hit the space bar emphatically. I carefully walk around the desk to stand (hopefully) next to the projection of my computer screen.

"Someone tell me what's on the screen."

"A spinning cube," the girl right in front of me whispers timidly.

"A spinning cube made of numbers, right?" It's a pretty good description. I always thought it looked like the Matrix. "Where's Mr. Henries' statement?"

"Gone?" the girl whispers just as someone else cries, "In the cube."

"Exactly. In the cube."

"How'd it get in there?"

I open my mouth to reply, but Billy beats me to it. "Weren't you watching? He built it around it."

"Huh?"

I smile and nod thanks in Billy's direction. "Very good, but not completely. The cube isn't hollow. You wouldn't be able to take away a wall and find the sentence." I feel the class' confusion. I take a breath and try again. "Think of it like a mote around a sandcastle. The bad guys have to get passed the mote to get to the castle, so the mote protects the people inside, but is a mote really a mote without a castle? No, it's just a mound of dirt. On a certain level, Mr. Henries' statement is like the castle, protected by the mote and at the same time, making the mote."

I don't know how else to explain it without getting into codes and ciphers, even though I can almost see a few of the third-graders (and even a couple fathers) scratching their heads. "I know that's a bit confusing, so for today's sake, let's just say the cube – or as we grown-ups call it, the firewall – protects Mr. Henries' statement. Anyone care to try to get to it?" I gesture toward my computer, inviting someone to crack my simple algorithm. No one moves.

I wait two beats before clapping my hands together. "No takers?" I feel my watch. "Well, looks like I've gone over my fifteen minutes, so I'll say goodbye and turn your attention back to your lovely teacher. Ms. McFerg?"

~OOOOOO~

"I'm sorry I didn't get a big wow factor," I say five minutes later as Tom's leading me out of the school.

"You convinced me," he replies. His tone is flat, but that's no surprise. He inherited my father's curious predisposition to hide even the most mundane emotions. It's a skill that took me forever to learn, and sometimes I envy his innate ability, but not today. I really want to know how badly I screwed up.

"Was that a tough sell?" I'm only half joking. Annie's always telling me not to push my career onto our kids, but I have to admit, some part of me expects Tom to go into technical security.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"If I say no, will you still teach me geometric sequencing tomorrow?"

I laugh and pull my son close to my chest. He's getting tall. Soon he'll be among the tallest in his grade, despite being two years younger than most of the other kids. That's the Anderson gene coming out.

"That's my little Neo!" I reply using the nickname I gave him when he hacked his first program.

Tom squirms and returns my embrace.

I pull him out of my jacket and put my hand on his shoulder, both for guidance and moral support. "No really," I say, seriously now. "How bad was it?"

Tom shrugs. "Jonathon's always going to be mean."

I sigh and nod. "Yeah, I know. But now I know how bad he can be, I'll help you hide an – uhm –" I cough subtly, "_accident _from your mother. If say, he happened to be in the way while you might be, I don't know, practicing a move your mother or I taught you…"

I feel my son look up at me and I wink. I can almost see his gratitude and surprise. A kind of warmth spreads down my back as I remember the satisfaction of punching my own schoolyard bully. Every smart kid deserves a little retribution. "Just remember, violence is doesn't solve anything, so don't tell your mother, okay?"

"Yeah!" Tom's usually stoic exterior falters for a moment and I suddenly get an entirely different warm-fuzzy feeling in my gut. It's easy to forget what it's like to be a dad.

I hear the cab I called pull up, and I step out on the curb to meet it. I kiss Tom on the top of his head before pushing him gently back toward the doors. "Go have fun hearing about the slaughterhouse."

I'm almost in the cab when Tom calls my name. "Daddy?"

I turn back to face him. "Yeah, Tom?"

"I could have broken the code."

I smile. "I know." I close the door, and as the cab pulls out of the parking lot, I realize that I couldn't be prouder of my Neo if he graduated top of his class at MIT and married the love of his life.

**A/N: I have two more snippets planned out, one for Nora and one for the twins, but I might consider writing more. It depends on the responses to this and the others and whether my muse sees fit to drive me insane. Again.**


	2. Normality Is Relative

**A/N: This installment is centered around Auggie's relationship with his daughter, Nora. It takes place a few years after "Make Me Proud". I would like to thank everyone who reviewed the last one-shot. For some reason, I'm having trouble responding to them. Every time I click on the "reply" link, my internet crashes. On the matter of thanks, fyd818 gets an extremely big one for her wonderful generosity, and as such, this is dedicated to her. Those of you who catch what she donated, congrats. I'm sure she'll be as pleased as a lottery-winner. **

Normality Is Relative

"Honey! Kids, I'm home!" I call, dropping my cane and house keys in the dish on the table by the front door. The dog, Havoc, nearly runs me over in her attempt to greet me, instead skidding to a shaky halt on my feet. He gets heavier and heavier every time he does that. Sometimes it's hard to believe he is a retired FBI bomb-sniffer.

"Daddy! Save us!"

I give Havoc another pat on his flabby (he's gained a lot of weight since we got him, a side-effect of being retired and no one, even me, being immune to his pathetic begging) side and stand up straight. I drag the tips of my fingers along the wall to the kitchen. "What's going on?"

"Manual labor!" Jake, my youngest by two minutes practically shouts.

"What did you two do this time?" I ask, walking to the table where I heard my beautiful wife say hello. I almost run into her chair, but cover my blunder with a well-aimed kiss to the top of her head. God I love her shampoo.

"Allegedly!" Benji interjects.

"Of course." I don't believe a word of it. "Allegedly" was their first word after "food".

"Hey Dad," Tom says as I sit down next to him and his mother tells the twins they have to cut the tomatoes before they can be free.

"Tommy. Didn't hear you there. What're you doing?"

"Math homework."

"Need any help?"

"It's easy."

I hear Havoc's nails click against the hardwood floors, and he collapses next to Annie's chair with a tired thump, his burst of energy gone. Pathetic old thing. "Where's your sister?"

"Her room."

"Why?"

"She won't tell us," Annie interrupts. "You have to go talk to her."

I turn my head a little to face my wife. "Why?" I ask again.

My stunning soul mate is probably sending me a just-do-it glare, but of course, I don't catch it. Not that it matters. The swift, more than tap, to my shin sends the message loud and clear.

~OOOO~

The heavy tones of Bob Dylan greet me halfway up the stairs. Great. Nora only goes for the old music when she's really down.

I knock softly on the first door to the left of the stairs. "Nora? May I come in?" The music blares on.

I wait a few more seconds, listening to Bob Dylan's voice and steeling myself. I push open the door. "Nor?"

Nora shuffles on her bed. At least, I think she does, the music is blocking a lot. I address the room. "Computer. Decrease volume seventy-five percent." The music instantly shifts to the background.

"I was listening to that." Nora's annoyance is only show. Not good.

I walk carefully into her room. The kids are usually pretty good about keeping stuff off the floor, but they have been known to slip up sometimes and send Daddy sprawling. I gesture for her to move over, which she does resignedly. I sit down.

"Now, you want to talk?"

"No."

I smile a bit and lean back against the headboard, stretching my feet out on the bed. "Okay, but your mother told me to talk to you, so I'm just going to sit here for a while. If she asks, we had a good chat." I close my eyes. One. Two. Three –

"She kept me after class."

I don't have time to congratulate my timing as Nora's words sink in. "Who did? What happened?" I keep my voice sympathetic and caring, even while I'm plotting revenge for my daughter.

"Senora Rodriguez. She kept saying 'Miramos el libro,' so I corrected her."

"And she didn't like it?" Truth be told, I don't think there is anything wrong with saying 'we look at the book', but now's not the time to be the enemy.

"First she didn't say anything, just kind of stared at me with this pissed look in her eyes, then she ordered me to stay after the bell. I missed most of lunch!"

I have to ask, even though I know the fallout's not going to be pretty. "Which language did you correct her in?"

Nora pushes herself up from the bed to look at me. "Spanish, of course." She stands up, frustration mounting. "I thought she'd appreciate it. None of the other kids could listen in. She called me a showoff, Daddy. Me!"

I make sure there's no hint of the smile I feel wanting to tug at my lips on my face. Nora's not really a showoff, but she's definitely a performer. There have been a couple of times when Annie or I have caught her speaking multi-lingual sentences to the mirrors, but we decided a long time ago not to interfere. It looks like it's time to amend that decision. "What exactly did she say?"

"I don't know." Is that a sniff I just heard? I hope she's not crying. I'm not ready for crying.

"You don't know, or you don't want to remember?" I ask gently. I hold my arms out, silently asking if she wants a hug. I don't actually expect her to come to me, she hasn't since she was little, but all at once, I feel her fall back onto the bed and snuggle into my arms.

"Both, I think," she mumbles into my shirt, her voice thick both from the fabric and the repressed tears. I fold my arms around her. "I just don't get it."

"I know." What I don't know is whether I should explain it or just let her get it out. I go with the former, my reasoning being that if I don't, I might have to go through this conversation again, next time with tears. "She thought you were making her look bad in front of her students."

"But I—"

I interrupt her before she can complete her sentence. "That's why you said it in Spanish, I know, but some people are more sensitive than others. You remember when I told you about my first couple of weeks in the tech department?" I feel Nora push farther into my chest as she nods. "Some of the other techies thought I was showing them up. I was a field agent coming in cold from the action, newly blinded, and still managing to beat their best decryption times. I can't tell you how much grief everyone gave me before I proved I could be a team player."

"So you're saying I should play stupid? That I should let Senora Rodriguez use the wrong words?" Nora's temper is flaring again. She resembles Annie so much. Always up and down emotionally. Thank God the boys are more stable.

"No," I reply slowly. "What I'm saying is Senora Rodriguez might, on some level, see you as a sort of threat." Annie and I were afraid this might happen. If the school board hadn't been so stubborn, we could have gotten Nora out of the required language course, but they absolutely refused to let Nora test out or take classes at the local university instead.

"How could I be a threat to her? I'm not the one giving out the grades!"

"Yes, but you are the twelve-year-old who speaks her language, and more, fluently. It doesn't make much sense, I know, but it's true."

"She's afraid of me?" Nora is trying to wrap her rather naïve mind around this new information.

"That's one way of putting it," I reply. We sit in silence for a long couple of minutes, listening to the dulcet tones of Bob Dylan, before I break it. "Next time, phrase it as a question. Preferably in English."

"Like how?"

"Well," I have to think about this for a moment. I haven't had to sugar coat corrections since grad school. "Say something like—"

"How could Alexander the Great beat Genghis Khan?" Jake effectively interrupts my example.

"Are you kidding? His army would whoop the Mongols' butts!" Benji rebuts, a step behind his twin.

Nora groans and tunnels her head back into my shirt as her brothers thunder passed her door, still arguing. "Why can't my family be normal?"

I laugh, while in the inside I'm groaning. Everything's becoming clearer now. Nora's early. The parenting books Annie and I read said this wouldn't happen for another year. Then again, our kids were always above the bell-curve. "What do you mean?"

Nora raises her head a bit to look at me. I'd bet good money she's giving me a don't-screw-with-me look. "They're arguing about the superiority of ancient military commanders. They're nine, Dad."

"They don't know what their saying. They're just copying what Chloe told them last time she babysat." At the same time, I hear: _"That is so shallow. Genghis Khan made sure his empire would remain strong and kept it simple. It beats Alexander's take-take-take attitude completely,"_ echo down the hall from the twins' room. I hope Nora didn't pick it up.

"And Tom? How do you explain that?"

"What?" I play dumb.

"He's downstairs doing trig. I'm a grade behind him and two years older and I'm only just starting pre-algebra!" Nora sits up to look at me fully.

I am ready for this one. "Hey, when I was his age, I was doing advanced math too. Are you calling me strange?"

"We're all strange, don't you get it? The whole family is weird! Why can't we just be a normal, suburban family?" Nora is almost desperate; her voice is climbing. I wrap my arms tighter around her, pulling her back against my chest.

I try a joke. "Trust me, Nor, suburbanites are not normal. Your mother and I once went undercover in suburbia, and, well, you've heard the stories."

Nora's not buying it. She wriggles in my grip. "Fine. I just want us to be normal."

"Like my brothers? Do you want the boys to roughhouse, be obsessed with sports? Do you want me to work a nine to five job, carry a briefcase? Come home after school to see Mommy wearing an apron and gossiping about the neighbors?" I grin at my baby girl, who's perhaps not so much a baby anymore. "Come on, love."

"Okay," Nora mumbles. "Maybe not the apron. Or the sports." I have to stifle another smile. While the family isn't exactly interested in football, Annie and I have made it a priority to keep the kids active. Only Nora really hates the gym. "But I wish my teacher wasn't intimidated by me."

I shrug and Nora's head bumps against me. "Think of it this way: you are lucky."

"How so?" Nora doesn't believe me. I struggle to find the right words.

"Well, when I was growing up, I was the only one of my brothers who had a plan. I knew I was going into computers. I wasn't sure how, but I knew what I wanted. Uncle Gary didn't. He hadn't found his talent, his niche, in life. It took him thirty-seven years to realize he loves to paint. What do you love?"

Nora's reply is quick. "Languages. Communicating."

My smile is softer and I almost whisper in her ear. "You know exactly what you want to do, don't you?" I feel her nod. "You won't have to waste your life looking for the thing that makes you want to live. You won't have to wake up one morning and realize you wish you hadn't spent that extra year in college looking for a major."

I reach for her chin and force her to look at me. "Now tell me you aren't glad you don't have to watch your brothers waste their lives doing things they hate like I had to with Gary."

Nora stares at me for a moment, and then pulls out of my grasp to look away. I let her. "I guess I am."

"So do you think it's worth a teacher thinking you're a showoff because you're doing what you love?" I continue, driving my point home.

"Maybe," she whispers.

"Trust me, it is." We're both silent again. After a while, I kiss the top of her head and stand up. I offer my arm. "Now let's go see if your mother needs us to help with the dinner."

"The twins were supposed to do that."

I raise an eyebrow at my daughter. "Come on, I'm sure you don't want to miss her rant in Russian about her newest batch of students."

Nora jumps off her bed with more energy than I would have expected considering her mood only moments before. Not that I'm surprised, though. My girl never wastes an opportunity to pick up curses in other languages.

I put my other hand over hers in the classic gentleman-escort position. We just reach the bottom of the stairs when Annie begins her colorful rant, having run into an innocent Havoc after rushing (unsuccessfully) to stop the pot of rice from boiling over.

I push Nora gently toward the stove in a silent command to get her to help save supper.

"How's the math?" I ask Tom, coming up behind him while Nora gets a sponge.

"Finished," he replies.

I smile and hand him the silverware I just got out of the drawer. Tom grumbles a bit before starting to set the table.

My smile softens as I listen to my family: my wife and daughter trying to resurrect the burned chicken while speaking in rapid-fire German; my eldest son clanking silverware and asking me for clarification on game theory; my twins thumping around above me, simulating what sounds like a medieval battle in the upstairs hallway; and, if I interpret Havoc's tail whacking my foot correctly, my dog waiting for the girls to give up on the chicken.

Nora's right, our family is strange. And I couldn't ask for anything better.

**A/N: Next up is the twin-centered. I am also contemplating writing one for Havoc, but I haven't really thought of how to phrase it. As always, reviews are more than welcome.**


	3. Save the Dogs of War

**A/N: This is the Havoc story. I know I said I would be doing the twins next, but this just wouldn't let me alone. It's not my favorite, but I've been re-working it for so long (I wrote it a day after I posted "Normality Is Relative"), I think if I don't let you read it now, I never will. I promise next chapter will be the twins. **

Save the Dogs of War

After Annie and I were engaged, Jai Wilcox and I reached a sort of co-habitation that could almost be called friendship, not in a small part after a _very _drunk Jai tried to kiss me (I don't think I have to mention how embarrassing that was for both of us, despite it being rather flattering on my end) and I realized that there was no way he was at all attracted to my fiancé. The mutual respect was officially cemented when the recently promoted new director of the DCS, Jai Wilcox, offered me the position of head of the seventh floor's tech ops five years ago.

That being said, however, sometimes, like now, I think Jai asked me as some sort of punishment.

Don't get me wrong, the pay is almost twice as much as I was getting back in the DPD (which, considering, isn't all that much, but I knew that going into government employment) and I actually have an office with four walls and a lock, plus four techs at my beck-and-call. But there are days…

I slump onto a bar stool at Allen's. I haven't been out of the office for almost thirty straight hours and as much as I want to get home to kiss my wife and kids, I doubt they'd been too pleased about me waking them up a few short hours before they have to get to school.

"You look like crap," a familiar voice a couple of stools to my left says.

"I'm just guessing here, but you probably don't look to hot yourself," I shoot back, turning to grin sleepily at my DPD replacement in the tech ops booth.

Greg scoots down the bar to sit next to me. "Yeah, I guess I do. I never really understood how much you had to do until they gave me your job."

I laugh and feel for the beer I heard the bartender serve me. "Welcome to management!" I tip my bottle to him and Greg clanks his against it. We both take a swig.

"How's my godson?"

I turn to face him again, having drifted out for a moment. "Good. He rewrote his sister's pad to show only the binary codes yesterday." I can't help but smile into my beer. When I last spoke to Annie just after they ate dinner at seven, Nora was still refusing to talk to her brother.

Greg whistles. "How'd he manage that?"

I shrug. "As if I know. Tom won't tell me." I have a pretty good idea, but I'm still thinking about it.

"How's Annie? The kids?" Greg asks suddenly.

"They're all good. Annie teaching two more classes this semester, so she's been busy. How's Melinda?"

Melinda is Greg's girlfriend. She's not CIA, but she is law enforcement. FBI, if I remember correctly, cyber crime division. They met, coincidently enough, at DataTech when they were both scouting for recruits. Rumor has it they tried to recruit each other, but I've never been able to confirm that. They moved in together two years ago, but they've been dating for almost five. Stu and I have a bet going for when they'll make it official. Come to think of it, my predicted month is coming up.

"She's been a bit depressed, actually, so she's visiting her mother."

My ears twitch and I face Greg full on. "What'd you do?"

"Hey! Why do you assume I did something?" Greg answers indignantly. I don't have time to answer before he says, "For your information, she's depressed because they're putting down her favorite bomb-sniffer."

"Bomb sniffer? I thought she worked in cyber."

"She does. You remember Janet, right? The one Stu made me ask out for him?" I get a flash of Stu going on and on about a hot fed during the last barbeque of the summer. I nod and he continues. "It's Janet's dog and they're both really sad about it."

I'd forgotten Melinda's best friend was in the bomb squad. "Why are they putting it down?"

I hear Greg shrug. "All I know is Melinda says it's a ridiculous reason to kill an innocent being. Personally, I don't think it's all that innocent. It always makes me sneeze."

I snort. "A crime worth capital punishment then?"

Greg's beer sloshes around as he finishes it. I hear him gesture for another. "Course it is."

I take another swig of my own drink as an idea starts to take shape in my mind. "When's the date?"

"A week, I think. Why?"

I shrug and finish off my drink. I pay my tab and unfold my cane. "Just wondering. What breed is it, do you know?"

"German shepherd," Greg answers as I head to the door.

~OOOOO~

I stand in the doorway of my youngest children, listening to their even breathing. They're going to be seven soon. One of them, Benji I'm almost positive, groans in his sleep and I jerk forward into the room to check on him, but Jake, his twin, turns over on the bottom bunk, possibly disturbed by my sudden movement. I decide not to risk two sleep-deprived bottles of mischief and gently shut the door, silently telling them goodnight.

I tiptoe passed Nora's closed door and undress as quietly as I can before levering myself next to my beautiful wife. Almost at once, I feel her snuggle up to me. "I missed you," she mumbles into my ear.

I smile slightly, glad she's relatively awake. I turn to face her and kiss her gently on her forehead. "I thought you'd be asleep. I didn't wake you, did I?"

Annie shakes her head against my chest. "I was waiting for you."

"Oh, if I'd known that, I wouldn't have spent so long talking with Greg at the tavern."

"Did he have anything interesting to say?"

"Melinda's best friend is losing her partner."

Annie sits up, knocking my hand off her back. "What?"

I pull her down again. "Her dog, love, not a person."

"Still," Annie replies, lying back down on my chest so that I can hold her.

We lay there in silence for a while, listening to each other breathing and waiting for sleep to come. After a few minutes, I whisper, "Annie-sweetie?"

"Hmm?" Annie exhales, almost asleep.

"Do you think the kids are ready for some responsibility?"

"They're too young to drive." Annie's voice is so heavy with sleep, I almost don't catch it. Almost before she finishes the sentence, I know she's asleep. I wrap my arms tighter around her and kiss the top of her head once more.

~OOOOOO~

The layout hasn't changed much since I left. I nearly run into a couple of chairs, but nothing major. It's still fifty-seven feet (plus a couple desks) at nine-thirty from the main entrance.

"You guys actually working?" I ask, sliding open the door to the tech ops.

"Someone has to while you play with your seventh floor toys," Stu replies from his desk.

I laugh and grope around for Greg's chair, which should be somewhere in front of me. I find it and sit down. There's a slight envious undertone to my not-really former subordinate's voice, but I know he's joking. This is the guy who, with his best friend (a.k.a. Greg), adapted one of the newest projection-screen computers to my needs for Christmas a few years ago. I'm still thanking them for it. Before I must have looked pretty pathetic using the old flat screens when all the other techies in my department were using the holo-screens.

"Hey, where's your boss? I need to ask him something."

"Which one?" Stu tosses what sounds like an empty chip bag into the trashcan next to me. It actually lands in the basket for once.

"Greg."

"Behind you."

"What?" I spin my chair around. How had he been able to sneak up on me? I'm getting rusty. Yet another reason why I should spend more time at home with the kids. There's nothing like running after rambunctious boys to sharpen the senses.

"What'ch'a doing in my seat? Shouldn't you be upstairs playing with your toys?" Greg says as a greeting.

I grin and lean back into the chair. "Your replacements can hold the fort for fifteen minutes without blowing anything up."

"It still takes four guys to do what we do," Stu shoots back. "And _I_ never actually blew up anything important," he adds to his computer.

Greg and I tactfully ignore his mumblings. "You needed to ask me something?"

"Yeah." I replace my smile for something more serious. "Last night you mentioned Melinda's friend?"

"Yes," Greg draws out his confirmation. I wonder if he remembers all of our conversation. Who knows how long he stayed after I left.

"Any way I could get a hold of her?" I didn't get a chance to continue my talk with Annie this morning, but the way I see it, it doesn't hurt to ask.

"Why? Annie getting too tough?" Stu calls.

I spin around, outrage sparking before I realize he's just joking. I tell myself to relax. "Wouldn't you like to know?" I force myself to joke back.

"I can ask Melinda, but you know what? Melinda's wanted to talk to Annie for a while; it might be easier to just come over for dinner tomorrow night. You free?"

I have to think about it. Tomorrow's Wednesday, and that means soccer for Tom and judo for the twins, but our neighbor usually drives Tom to practice with her son and the judo class ends at seven. "I think we can do it. I'll have to talk with Annie though."

"Whipped, man, whipped!" Stu calls at my back as I slid the office door closed after Greg agrees.

I open it a little and smile as I say, "And you wish you were too!" I walk away before he can rebut.

~OOOOO~

"Annie!" Melinda squeals as soon she opens the door the next night. She pulls my wife away, leaving me alone to find my way into the kitchen. I guess she assumes I've been to the house enough times to know where to find Greg. She's right.

"Greg?" I call, walking into the kitchen.

"Hey Aug. Wanna beer?" Greg replies, his voice coming from behind what I assume is the door of the kitchen fridge. "Here." He offers me a cold bottle of light beer-the only kind Melinda will let him drink in the house-and I take it gratefully.

"So, who's here?"

"Just you guys, and Melinda's friend, Janet. Stu's on a date and Jim said his mother wants him to clean his room." We both chuckle a bit into our beers.

I always thought it was a TV show stereotype that the computer-whizzes live in the family basement. Then I found out most of my fellow desk-jockeys still have their mother doing their laundry. Greg must be laughing for a completely different reason, because I know for a fact that before he and Melinda moved in together, he slept in the attack.

"I've got to check the steaks." Greg taps my hand and I take his elbow so that he can lead me outside to the back porch.

"It's a little chilly for an outside grill, isn't it?" I pull my jacket closer around myself to ward off the brisk Virginia February-air. The sun went down a while ago and it's getting cold.

"Suck it up, man!" Greg replies, closing the grill with a loud clang that makes me flinch.

"It's—" I start, but I'm rudely interrupted. Something large and short smashes into the back of my legs, knocking me forward toward the grill. "Ahh!" I yelp, rather unmanly, and in an effort to avoid the hot coals, ungracefully collide with Greg.

I regain my balance, and I'm trying to ignore my crushed ego when Greg starts to laugh. While I'd rather him laugh than have him mention my girlish cry to Stu, he could at least tell me what happened.

"I guess I forgot to mention Havoc," Greg sputters through his laughter. Really, it's not that funny.

"Havoc?" Almost at once, the _thing _that nearly killed me moves and I feel something cold, wet, and oddly squishy touch my hand. At least this time I have enough of my wits to hide most of my surprise.

"Janet's dog. She told Melinda she didn't want to leave it alone so close to 'the day'."

I follow Greg's footsteps back into the house while sharp clacking nails follow me. I do my best to ignore the animal. "Steaks are almost done!" Greg shouts, much too close to my eardrum for comfort.

"The potatoes are in the pot!" Melinda shouts back from the direction of the den.

"What do you want us to do with them?"

"Mash them!" Melinda replies, still in the den. "We're talking!"

There's a moment of silence before Greg turns to me. "Can you make mashed potatoes?"

To tell the truth, I've never been too good in the kitchen. Sure, I can make some dishes fit for kings, but before Annie and her sister's recipes, I lived mostly on take-out and spaghetti. "Just add milk and smash, right?"

"I guess." I hear Greg shrug, and I take the outstretched masher.

All the while I'm mashing, the dog, Havoc, is panting next to me.

"What could they possibly be talking about?" Greg asks after a while, his voice strained from trying to pry open a bottle of wine.

I put down the milk and hold out my hand for the wine. He grumbles before passing over the bottle. "Probably about us," I reply, popping the cork easily. I grin as I give it back.

"I could have done it," Greg says as a thanks. "What would they be saying about us?"

I put the last of the seasonings I think Danielle, Annie's sister, uses in the potatoes before turning to him. "You want me to listen in, don't you." It's not a question.

"You are the ex-agent."

I have to grin. "Fine, but you owe me, especially if they're talking about something boring."

"'Course. I'm going to go check on the meat."

"Chicken," I mumble to the dog, which, by the way, is still glued to my side, waiting to trip me.

~OOOOOO~

I have two ways to do this. I could just walk into the den and sit next to my wife, but that might be risky. They might change their conversation, or worse yet, make me contribute. The second option is safer, but runs a bigger chance of being caught. That thought makes up my mind. I haven't gotten a good, old-fashioned adrenaline boost since Annie left the CIA, or, at least, a rush that doesn't involve the kids.

If I remember correctly, the den is down the hall from the kitchen if you go through the door on the far right wall. The double doors are paneled glass, which means no listening at the keyholes, but Melinda usually keeps them open, so that shouldn't be an issue.

I unfold my cane, not to use (it would make too much noise), but as a support in case I need a quick excuse—Annie would never believe that I was just trying to find them without it being open—and inch my way to the wall.

I trace my fingertips along the wall, stopping when my gut tells me I shouldn't go any farther. I crouch down, almost knocking into the hall table, but, remembering it from a previous collision, manage to avoid it. The walls are pretty thick, but the open door combined with my acute hearing keep me from missing much.

"I have noticed he's been a bit clumsier," Melinda is saying. My ears perk up. I bump into one chair, maybe a futon or two, and suddenly I'm clumsy? "But I thought that was just old age."

Now I'm old _and _clumsy! Talk about a sucker-punch to the gonads!

"He's still relatively young, isn't he?" Annie asks. Why she asks, I don't know. How can any guy that keeps up with her not be young? And what's with all this "relatively" crap? I'm only forty-four. If I were still a field-agent, I'd have a good couple of years left in me!

"That just makes it worse!" Janet cries. Wait, why is Janet crying? She barely even knows me. "He can still do his job!"

"But doesn't he need 20/20?" Of course not! I'm the head of the top technical division in the Agency, like hell I can't work! Who does this woman think she is? I make a mental note to tell Greg (tactfully) that his girlfriend's sight-ist.

"He's never had 20/20 and that didn't stop them from hiring him in the first place," Janet replies. My eyebrows scrunch together on their own accord. How did Janet know I wore glasses before Iraq? How much do women talk when the guys are out of the room? No wonder men were so hesitant to hire women; they can't keep secrets during girl-talks!

I miss Janet's next statement because I'm too busy thinking about all the bed-talk that might very well be common knowledge among this gaggle of women. Surely Annie didn't tell them about—Oh please God! I repress a shudder.

"How long's he got?"

Someone pulls another tissue out of a box, and there's a lot of rustling. "It's scheduled for Monday," Melinda replies to Annie's question.

A sudden, gripping fear ripples through me. What happens Monday? How would Melinda know what's going to happen to me? Did Greg tell her something? He must have.

Another thought threatens to cut off my air: What if the reason he was at the bar that night was because he just got the news? What had he said? His voice comes back to me. _I never really understood how much you had to do until they gave me your job._

What if he hadn't meant my job at the DPD? What if he'd been drinking out of remorse? He would be my logical replacement, what if the higher-ups had decided that I was too much of a hassle? All my computers have to have special software; things have to be a certain way. What if Wilcox decided I'm not worth the bother? What will I do? Annie doesn't make enough money teaching to support the family alone!

The dog clicks past me, panting lightly as it passes and turns into the den.

I hear the back door open, and Greg placing something on a counter. "Steaks are done! Come and get it, ladies!" His call drowns the women's next words.

I focus my attention back on them just in time. I scramble to my feet and wipe all terror off my face, and pretend to have just stopped on my way to get them.

"If only there were a way to save him," Annie's saying. My heart lifts for a moment. It's about time Annie came to my rescue.

"I would if I could, but the rule is only one at a time."

"What—Oh, hello, darling," Annie interrupts herself. She gives me a kiss and offers to lead me to the dining room, but I shake my head. I have to prove I'm not clumsy.

I hear Annie shrug. She returns to her discussion as if I'm not even there. "What if someone else could help? Is it possible?" I freeze. Here it is, the moment of truth.

"I suppose, but who would do it?"

Annie turns around to speak to me. "Honey?" Oh no, her tone is begging. She's going to ask me who might be able to help us. I gulp. I open my mouth. "How would you like a dog?"

My cane reverberates (I might have been a bit careless and swung it too hard) against the table as it suddenly clicks. I'm not getting fired! I'm not useless! What a relief!

"What is, Sweetie?"

Wait, had I said that out loud? Quick, cover up. "I haven't," I rack my brains, "gotten the twins a birthday present."

"Excellent. Janet, we'll take him."

"Thank you!" Janet hugs Annie tight enough for her to give a slight hiccup of air. In my delirium of relief, I laugh and I find myself the next recipient of a bone-crushing hug. At the same time, a cold, wet, slightly squishy nose bashes itself into my rear-end, and I realize the implications of what Annie and I have just agreed to.

Oh God, a house with four mini-geniuses, one over-worked professor, and two blind guys. This is going to be fun.

**A/N: Please tell me if this was okay. I hope I didn't make it too choppy. I was especially tentative with making Havoc extremely near-sighted, but I couldn't resist the identity screw-up, no matter how cliche. Please review. **


	4. Situational Actions

**A/N: This is my Christmas present to all the wonderful writers and readers on the CA fandom. It's been finished for a while, but I'd postponed posting it for an occasion. (Plus I'd been contemplating adding another section, but that doesn't really matter.) Anyway, here is the last (I think) one-shot in this collection. It revolves around Auggie's relationship with the twins. They are ten in this section, so Tom is twelve, and Nora has just turned fourteen. **

Situational Actions

I am woken by a heavy, mucus-coated, hacking cough and a sharp poke to my shoulder.

"Daddy!"

My eyes are open immediately and I jerk up, my sudden movement sending my beautiful wife—she'd snuggled into my arms after our the-kids-are-finally-asleep-and-its-been-too-long affair at two AM—unceremoniously back against the pillows with a thump and a surprised yelp on her part.

"Whoa," Benjamin, my barely ten year-old son, exclaims.

"What's wrong?" I register somewhere in the middle of my sentence that my tone is hardened. I sound like the soldier who ran into firefights and dragged bodies off the roads. Annie's warm hand on my upper arm tells me she's noticed as well and helps me slow my thumping heart enough for me to repeat the question in a tone befitting a father of four. "What happened?"

Before Benji can answer, another gut-clenching cough thunders down the hall. I put the sound and my son's presence together and stand quickly, ignoring the momentary dizziness that follows.

I don't wait for Benji; the soldier persona has been pushed beside Doctor Dad.

My foot catches on a backpack strap halfway into the twins' room, and my heart leaps back into my throat.

"Sorry," a croaky voice mumbles from the top bunk.

Normally I'd laugh it off or even raise my eyebrow as a scolding, but not this time. I kick the bag away (probably scattering the contents everywhere) and center myself to my son's voice. "Hey Buddy, when'd you start hacking up your lungs?"

The mental image invoked by the phrase is horrible. Last time I ever use that expression.

"Don't know," Jake replies, his voice cracking out.

"He said he had a headache last night." Annie is next to my shoulder. I didn't hear her come in. "I gave him some child aspirin."

"He woke me up about half an hour ago," Benji supplies from the doorway. I turn back to his twin.

I feel for his arm, before holding out my palm for his forehead. Jake complies. His head burns against my hand. Damn. "What else hurts?" I ask, lifting my hand from his face and stepping aside for Annie to do whatever she has been trying to do for the last thirty seconds. I hear her put her brush the boy's wavy bangs out of the way.

"Stomach," Jake mumbles. He sounds nauseous.

I sigh. Hearing someone vomit is perhaps the worst sound in the world. Especially when it's one of your kids.

"I'll go call Dr. Scott."

Another cough covers Annie's exit.

In the resounding silence, I get a horrible feeling. "Benji?"

"I'm picking them up," Benji's voice comes from the general direction of the corner closest to the door, where I kicked the pack.

"How are you feeling?"

"Jake's the one who's sick."

"I know. Come here." Benji shuffles toward me, and I tentatively feel his temperature. Just as I thought.

There are a more than a couple of not-so-great things about being a parent of identical twins, but by far the most stressful is that identical genes means when one twin gets sick, there is virtually no chance the other is immune. Benji might have been exposed later than Jake, but there is no doubt in my mind that he'll be coughing as hard as Jake soon.

I push him gently toward his bed on the bottom. "Back you go, Benny-Boy." Benji protests while Jake mixes a cough and a laugh.

I head carefully—I'm not positive if Benji finished picking up the contents of the backpack—out of the room, stopping at the doorway to listen for Annie's voice. I find her in the kitchen.

I wait for a break in her conversation with Dr. Scott's nurse before saying, "Benji's got it too."

My wife groans. "Of course he does. Did you hear that, Fran?"

I can't make out Fran's response, but she sounds as tired as Annie. Probably just got in when Annie called. What time is it, anyway? As if by magic, my alarm clock starts beeping. Six-fifty, then. I hurry upstairs to turn it off; the stupid thing would drive a Vulcan mad.

I collapse on the bed, face first, the beeping still echoing in my head.

"Dr. Scott can see them at eight." Annie lies down next to me, nuzzling her nose into my neck. God, I love when she does that. I don't have long to enjoy it, however, because she speaks again. "Can you take them?"

I sigh to give myself time. There's nothing really pressing planned at the Agency today (only on TV do we have exciting missions every day), just a budget meeting and routine paperwork and reports, but I don't want to tell Annie that. I really, really hate the doctors'. Unfortunately, I can't fool my brilliant, ex-agent seductress.

She presses a quick kiss to my cheek and pushes off my back. "I'll go make breakfast. You wake up Nora and Tom, if they aren't already."

~OOOOOOO~

"They've got a bug." I automatically put my hand on one of the twins' shoulders so that I can concentrate on telling their mother that they've got a doctor-sanctioned skive for the next two days. "He gave them something for the symptoms," I continue. You'd think after all the medical and technical advancements we've made in this century, we'd have found a cure for the common virus.

I listen to Annie with one ear while paying attention to the boys.

"Do you need me to stay with them?" Annie's voice comes loud and clear. I pause and Benji halts in the middle of a step. I grin while he regains his balance, still speaking (conspicuously in Spanish) around his lollipop to Jake. I turn my attention back to Annie's question.

I really want to tell her that she needs to watch them, but when she came home last night, she was so excited about this new artifact the history department asked her to try to translate. I can't pull her away from that. Not when I can help it. I steel myself. "They know to call me if they need me."

"So that's an 'I can watch them'?"

I nudge Benji forward (it _is _handy having kids). "Yeah, but I expect—" I stop myself, remembering present company. I switch gears. "I'll call you if they set the house on fire. Love you. Kisses!" I make sure to sound extra flamboyant to tease my boys. I'm not disappointed.

"Dad!" Jake and Benji say in unison. I'm not sure if they actually care or if they're just mimicking their teenage sister, but either way, I can't help but laugh.

I open the back door of the car. I finally caved after the last fiscal year and hired a company—taxis are just too difficult to find and much too expensive nowadays. The boys pile in and I shut the door before going to sit up front.

"Back home, please, Kathy," I greet my CIA-cleared (she had to be, even though she only ever sees the guard gate of Langley—the Agency's paranoid) driver.

"Everyone okay?" Kathy asks, starting the car.

"No school for two days!" Jake exclaims. It never fails to amaze me how much better you feel when you know you can spend the rest of the day in bed—or, in the kids' case, running amok.

"Lucky bugs." Kathy turns the car and my bag slides into the side of the door. I pull it into my lap.

"Nope, Dr. Scott said they'll be dead in twenty-four hours," Benji interjects. I'm not sure if he's trying to make a joke or not, but it's funny anyway.

"So are you going to work today?" Kathy asks me.

I shake my head. "Probably not today, I think."

"I'll stay in the area, then. Just in case."

I smile. She's only been my driver for a few months, but she already reads me like a book. I've decided that reflects positively on her rather than negatively on me.

Kathy drops us at the house.

"Beds or couches?" I ask as I unlock the door.

I feel the twins silently consulting each other before they pass me and their footsteps tell me they've chosen the living room. I put my cane in the dish on the table by the door, pat Havoc—the family lump of a dog who's so old, he camps in the foyer—and follow them.

"So, what do you want to do? Watch something?" I ask.

Jake coughs again, but the medicine Dr. Scott gave him seems to have had some effect, because it's not a throaty cough. I can live with that. "No," he replies after a moment.

The springs of the older (Jake must have claimed the newer while I was greeting Havoc) couch squeak a little as Benji nods in agreement.

"Okay, how about some tea?" Both Annie and I are normally coffee drinkers, but I grew up in a house where tea was essential and all curing. Old habits die hard.

"Let's play The Game!" Jake cries, ignoring my previous question.

"Yeah!" Benji replies, jumping energetically onto his knees.

"I don't know," I say slowly, sitting on the arm of the club seat in the middle of the two couches. "You guys are sick."

"No we're not!" Benji defends, just as Jake says, "So what?"

My lips quirk up at their perfect timing, but I hold my ground. "How will you hold your own?"

"We're not sick," Jake replies.

"We can do it anyway," Benji says at the same time.

I laugh and slide down to sit in the armchair correctly. "Fine, you win. Induction or situation?"

"Situation!" Both say at once.

"Situation, then." I am not surprised. Since Tom and I made up the game after he saw his first Sherlock Holmes film when he was eight, The Game has been a family pastime. It used to be just for building induction skills, but we've since added another section, situation, based on the classic television show _MacGyver_—the twins' favorite oldie. "Are you two going to work together or alone?"

The twins usually play as a team, especially when the whole family plays. They are almost unbeatable that way. Neither hesitates when they say, "Together."

I rub my chin like the Thinker (what do you know, I missed a spot shaving), contemplating the best setting. "Okay," I draw out the last syllable to add to the suspense. Benji's couch gives another groan as he pushes closer to insure he catches everything. "Train station, nine o'clock in the evening. The station is almost deserted, but the next train arrives in three minutes. You have to open a locker without any one giving you a second glance."

"What's in the locker?" Benji asks.

"Not relevant," I answer after a moment of thought.

"How old is the building?"

Jake's question surprises me. "Does it matter?" I ask.

"Mom always says arci—" Benji stumbles over the word, but I'm not fast enough with the correction, so he skips it. "Changes the way things are done."

"And everyone knows how the thing is laid out changes how you're supposed to act," Jake adds. They've melded into their talking-over-each-other habit that used to drive Nanny-Stein crazy.

I nod my head in understanding. "Okay, you win. The station's like the ones your mother and I would have seen when we were your age."

"What's that mean?" Jake asks.

I grin again. Sometimes I forget just how much technology has changed. "Actual key locks, like the ones we had in the old house, remember?"

"The ones that Nora taught us how to pick?"

"Nora taught you how to pick locks?" I don't bother to hide my surprise this time. I didn't even know Nora knew how to pick locks.

"Shhh! We weren't supposed to tell them!" Benji scolds Jake in a half-whisper.

My grin is wide as I say, "Yeah, that kind of lock." I lean back into my comfortable chair. "Have you got enough to go on, yet?"

There's a long pause during which, I assume, my sons are sharing looks. "What is around us?"

My smile turns sly and I lower my voice conspiratorially. "There's a night guard at the information desk around the corner from the locker room."

"Why?"

"Nope, that's all I'm going to say. It's up to you two now." I push myself out of the cushions. "While you guys think about how you're going to get the locker open, I'll be in the kitchen making lunch. Find me when you think you've got it."

~OOOOOOO~

I am just about to pour the chicken soup into bowls when I hear the twins coming to a conclusion. I've been listening to them debate for the last twenty minutes; it's always entertaining to hear their theories. I get the bowls and prepare for their entrance.

"We'd steal the guard's gun," Benji begins.

"—By doing that move Mom used on you that one time," Jake interjects. I blush. Annie and I had been sparring, as we often do (got to keep the romance alive somehow, right?) in the basement that we had converted into a gym, when she'd gotten in a (lucky) shot to a pressure point and stunned me for a good couple of minutes. We'd thought we were alone—we usually exercise together early, before the kids get up—but apparently not. God, I hope they hadn't been watching the whole time…

I force myself back into the present to catch the rest of the boys' plan. "…And then we'd shoot the lock off," Benji concludes like Jake hadn't interrupted.

"How would you explain the gunshot?" I place the steaming bowls on the table and go back for the juice I left on the counter by the fridge.

"What gunshot?" Jake asks, his voice angled downward in the direction of his food instead of me.

"Guns make noise."

"We said we'd muffle it."

"You did?" I don't remember them mentioning that.

"Yeah, we said we'd—What were we going to use?" Benji asks Jake.

"A book, Stupid," Jake replies through a mouthful of apple.

"Don't call him stupid," I reprimand automatically. I take a slice of the apple too, and add, "There's something wrong with your plan."

"What?" Jake sounds skeptical, even through his lunch and with his still-croaky voice.

I shrug and finish off the last of my soup. I love chicken noodle. "The cameras."

"You said it was an old station!" Benji cries, spitting his juice across the table in his haste.

"I think I said a building that your mother or I would have seen when we were your age."

"Yeah, so no cameras!"

I laugh out loud, even while I'm wondering just how old our kids think we are. "There were cameras when we were your age."

"Hrmph." Benji and Jake both lean back against their chairs, most definitely scowling.

"You finished your lunch?" It hasn't been fifteen minutes since we sat down, but we've never been slow eaters.

"How would you do it then?" Jake asks me accusatorially. Benji chimes in with a "Yeah!"

"Alright," I hold out my hands for their plates. "I'd use my key."

It takes them a full twenty seconds to get what I mean, but when it does, both of them are on me like I cheated. "Hey, hey, I never said the locker wasn't yours!" I cry, waving them out of my path to the dishwasher.

"You can't do that!" Jake's voice goes out again. It must be time for me to give them another dose of the medicine Dr. Scott prescribed. Where did I put the bottle again?

"Why not?" I reply, going back into the hall to get the medicine out of my bag.

"You just can't!"

They've both scrambled off their chairs to follow me down the hall. I turn around to face them. "Never go for the complicated solution." I melt into instructor-mode almost seamlessly. "The more complicated the answer, the greater the chance of failure."

The mood is decidedly more somber in the moments following my pronouncement. I hadn't meant the statement to be profound, but no matter.

"You should have told us we could unlock it," Benji finally says, breaking the tension.

I shoot them a sly grin and return to looking for the medicine. I shrug over at them. "Next time you'll know."

"We still won, right?" Jake asks, perfectly seriously.

I suppress a smile. I love my kids. I really, really do.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry it's not as involved as the others, but I was kind of running out of situations. Please review and tell me what you thought. **


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